


Danger, Stay Thy Hand

by captainkilly



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Healing, Mild Language, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8094553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Karen takes care of Frank's injuries.





	

It's warm for the time of year. Her coworkers tell her it's the hottest spring on record, even by Hell's Kitchen standards. Of course, the joke of the decade is that this part of the city always runs a little hotter. She doesn't find it very funny. Her apartment gets too stuffy, almost as if it wants to singlehandedly roast her alive. Karen suspects that the place hates her after all the bulletholes and near-misses she's suffered in it over the past few months. It was probably hoping for a quiet tenant.

She's never done quiet very well at all.

When a thudding noise and a slumping sound land outside her door at three in the morning, she's anything but surprised. She doesn't think it's a fight. Sounds too singular for that. It's too much of a one-person noise for that. (After all this time, she knows the difference. She's somehow strangely proud of herself.)

Even one-person noises can herald danger, though, so she packs her file away under the bed. Walks over to her drawer. Checks the loaded gun she keeps between her stockings and her underwear. It's the only thing in her room that's remotely cool to the touch. Guns are an extension of the self, or so she's been told, and for a moment she thinks herself as icy as its touch.

She shakes herself more awake than she was. Huffs out a breath of panicked nerves, inhales another that's slower and far more deliberate. Her shoulders roll and coil alongside her walk toward the door. She unlocks it. Opens just a sliver of it. Listens. Opens it a little wider when she hears exactly nothing at all. Peers out into the dimly-lit hallway of the apartment building that's seen far too many years of this blasted city.

She sees him seconds later.

Her brain doesn't quite screech to a halt just yet at the sight of him. Where he goes, danger follows. It's this she knows to be fact most of all. So she swings the door open and glances at the rest of the hallway. Sets one, two, three steps outside her door upon seeing it's empty. She peers down the staircase, half-raising her gun just in case anyone is sneaking up it. Feels foolish half a second later when it's just as empty as the rest of the building.

Empty except for him.

She turns back to him with a frown on her face. He looks like shit, like hell warmed over. She almost laughs at the appropriate thought. His shirt looks damp even in the pale light. His eyes are closed, though she can barely tell if the one on the right isn't swollen shut with a fresh bruise. He's wearing a jacket that looks too heavy -- and twice his size, which is _ridiculous_ \-- and she's sure the rips in his pants aren't his attempt to look cool. He's leaning against the staircase's railing.

She sinks down in front of him, gun still in hand, and contemplates him for a moment. He can't stay out here. The world's going to catch up with him if he stays here. She heaves a small sigh. Knows exactly what she's going to do about that. Hates herself for it a little.

"F-frank?" She hesitates slightly on his name. Knows he doesn't use it anymore, but the other moniker feels wrong on her lips. "Frank?" Her hiss sounds almost desperate when he doesn't respond. " _Fuck._ " She reaches out and pats the left, unbruised side of his face hesitantly. Slaps his cheek lightly. "Come on, wake up," she hisses anxiously. "Come on now."

He doesn't react. Great. She looks back at her door. Measures the distance between Frank and her doorstep in her mind. It's not far, but she can't hope to carry him. Some things in life are just suicide waiting to happen.

"Desperate times," she murmurs, more to herself than to him.

She smacks the bruised side of his face with the palm of her hand seconds later. Cries out in alarm when his own hand closes on her wrist and clamps down hard on it in reply. He squeezes it before his eyes flutter open. She hisses in pain. Swears out loud at him in her typical nervous ramble. Every other word is interspersed with a "fuck", but at least her continuous angry noise shakes him awake enough to let her go.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" she hisses at him once his eyes are open entirely. "Are you trying to break my arm?"

"Ma'am?"

The confusion as he peers up at her is tangible. His dark eyes are still slightly unfocused. He shakes his head as if to clear it. She doesn't miss the small intake of breath when he shifts his body into a more upright position. She weighs him with a look. Puts down the gun.

"You're hurt." She doesn't ask. It's just a statement that passes between them as if she's talking about the weather. "Goddamnit, Frank."

"Am fine. Just need a moment."

"Like hell you do." Her tone comes out more clipped than she strictly wants it to. Her hands reach for him and pat the damp patches on his shirt. Her palms come away red. He blinks at her owlishly. "You need to come inside. Don't you dare argue about that. I don't want your brand of danger catching up with you outside of my door." She tells herself that's all it is. That taking him in is somehow safer than leaving him outside. She chews her lip worriedly and tries not to think of any other reason. " _Please_ , Frank. We're sitting ducks out here."

She's relieved when he listens. His movements are slower than what she's used to from him. His hand comes down a little too hard on her shoulder, his grunt as he tries to rise is marred a little too much with pain, his motions are too swaying to be called precise. She grabs her gun in one hand. Clicks its safety back in place. Grabs his arm with her other hand before reaching further and letting her own arm rest underneath his armpit.

She can tell he tries very hard to not lean on her with his entire weight as they slowly rise off the floor. Her right hand rises to his waist to steady him. He sways on the spot and she's suddenly quite terrified he'll fall. The breath he huffs out sounds too brittle to her ears. Slowly, achingly, he shuffles one step forward. Then another. And another. She can tell it's his last bit of energy. Too costly a thing for a man like him to give.

They cross the threshold to her apartment after what feels like several minutes. It's the first time she's grateful that she's renting a small space. There are only a few steps left to her bed. He gets a little heavier on her with every move he makes. Her knees bend slightly under his weight. She almost swears to herself again when his hand clamps down hard on her shoulder. Thinks the better of it when she sees his face contort into a grimace.

She's never been more relieved to see her bed. She almost thinks he might feel the same, for he sinks down on the edge of it in what looks like utter relief. The weight of him leaves her entirely. His hands curl around her bedsheet and bedframe reflexively. He needs something, anything, to hold onto. _Or keep him upright,_ she thinks grimly.

She puts the gun back in her drawer. Rakes a hand through her hair before putting it up in a rather haphazard bun. Belatedly, she realises the hand's still covered in his blood. She wipes both her hands on her nightgown reflexively. Doesn't go to wash them just yet. She's afraid she'll look like a bloodthirsty fiend before she's through with taking care of him.

She steels herself against the sight of the streaks of red on the gold silk of the nightgown. _Pull it together, Karen._

She pulls the nearby chair up to stand at the foot of her bed. Looks down at him. Her hands are as gentle as she can make them when she reaches for his jacket and begins to take it off. He moves along with her motions slowly. Her job's a little easier for it, though the jacket still snags around his elbows and strains on his wrists before she can pull it off entirely.

His arms are covered with blood and bruises. Some look old. Some blood looks like it's dried up completely and become part of his skintone. Some bruises stand out yellow in the light. Most, however, are new. She frowns at him. Puts the jacket on the back of the chair and reaches for the lamp on her nightstand. It's a good thing she invested in a light she can brighten and dim at will. Her flick of the switch illuminates the room in brighter light than before.

That'll do.

She checks to see if her curtains are drawn. Good. Turns to the kitchen moments later. Goes to retrieve a bowl from one of its cupboards. She winces when she realises she normally puts her favourite salad in it. That's not going to happen anymore. She shrugs as she moves over to the bathroom and sets the bowl down in the tiny sink. She grabs a washcloth and throws it into the bowl. Takes some pills and her trusted first-aid kit out of the medicine cabinet seconds later. Brings those out and puts them on the bed next to him.

"No pills," he grunts at her.

She scoffs. The audacity. "Do you want those wounds of yours to get infected? Do you want to die of gangrene or something equally terrible?" She's fully aware that she's snapping at him at this point. Can't seem to stop herself from that. "You're going to take those fucking pills yourself or I'm going to knock you out and force them down your throat. Your choice, Frank."

She doesn't stay in the room to hear his answer. She's back in the bathroom, filling the bowl up with lukewarm water. Lukewarm is all she can get from these taps in this weather. There's something wrong with that, but she doesn't care to examine it too closely. Water is water at this point. She brings the bowl out and sets it on the chair next to the bed.

She bites her lip when she looks at him. Reaches for him very hesitantly, though still deliberately. Pulls at his shirt and tugs it out of his pants gently. She takes great care to not brush against his skin too much when she begins to tug it over his head. He lets her be, which surprises her slightly. She has no idea where his injuries are exactly, though sometimes she has to pry his shirt off his skin unexpectedly. His body barely reacts to that.

The shirt gets tossed to the floor unceremoniously the second it's off. She thinks she'll put it in with her next laundry if he still wants to keep it. Is almost startled at the normalcy of the thought, though she suspects she's using it as a distraction at this point.

He looks really bad. The state of his arms was just a precursor to the rest of him. She's not too worried about the old scars she spots underneath the bruises. Those seem to have healed up nicely for the most part. What worries her are the new cuts, some of them gaping, that riddle his chest. What worries her even more is the bruising on his stomach and side. It's so dark it's almost black, streaked with midnight blue and angry red, and spreads out in a haphazard pattern.

Her feet are already walking toward her tiny freezer before her head catches up with her. There is a method to her movements that she's too scared to examine. She clamps down hard on the fear that grips her throat. Frank doesn't need her falling apart on him. Right now, she's all he's got. She straightens her shoulders and pulls a big packet of frozen peas out of the freezer seconds later. He's going to be fine. They'll both be okay as long as she keeps herself together.

So she tucks her hair behind her ear. So she calls up the feeling of snow under her feet. So she remembers a cold night, an accident, and doing what must be done.

She can do this.

She fills up a glass of water before she trots back to the bedroom. Slams the glass unceremoniously down on her bedside table. The bag of peas is icy in her hands, stinging her skin, and she puts it down next to him. He raises his eyebrow slightly. She almost smiles at that. She turns toward her drawers. Scarf. She needs that scarf. She rummages in them haphazardly until she finds what she's looking for. Winces when she realises it's covered in pink flowers. Shrugs moments later. He can't afford to be picky and neither can she.

He is watching her every move with something that's akin to weariness. He catches on to what she is trying to do with the scarf and the pack of frozen peas rather quickly, given his unstable state, but she supposes that he's been down this road too many times to count. He raises his right arm away from his body now that she has tied the scarf around the bag. She presses the pack to his body. Tells him to hold it in place.

She knows he's in a bad place when he doesn't even grunt his acknowledgment and simply lowers his arm again to hold the pack steady. She pulls on the scarf as hard as she can while giving his back a quick once-over. She's thankful to see that the scars and wounds are not as present there, though there's a rather nasty burn running across his shoulderblade that she really needs to look at. She files that away for later as she loops the scarf around his front and back before tying it in place. Makeshift though it may be, it's hopefully an antidote against the worst of the swelling and bruising to his side.

She pops the bottle of painkillers open next. Reaches for the glass and hands it to him. "Two of these now. Two of these in another six hours from now. You keep going until this pack is empty." She doesn't leave him room for argument. "I will not have you dying on my watch, you hear?"

"Already dead," he murmurs at her then. He's a shadow of the man she believed she knew. Another shadow of regret in her life. She swallows hard as she looks down at him. His voice is a whisper. "Karen.."

She's surprised when her own voice actually begins to quiver in response to him. Her eyes are wet. She snorts impatiently at herself. "No, you're not," she tells him. Tries to sound strong even when she is shattered and suddenly so very tired. Takes a deep shuddering breath before wiping at her eyes. "If you were dead, you wouldn't be sitting on my bed in the middle of the night looking like you just lost a fight with a revolving door that pulled ninja razorblades out on you at the same time. I can help you. I'm good at that. But you're not dead to me, Frank."

"Okay."

"Okay?" She's puzzled at how easily he gives in. Frowns at him before popping two pills out of the bottle and handing them over. He chugs them back in one go. "Wow. Okay then." She laughs a little nervously when she takes the glass back from him. "I, uh, I need to wash some of the blood off before I can stitch you up. And you're not leaving tonight. We'll see about tomorrow."

He nods slowly at her and she's suddenly acutely aware that she's rambling. A small flush rises to her cheeks and burns hotter than the room. She kneels down in front of him. Dips her hands in the cooling water and grabs the washcloth. This is the easy part. She hesitantly brushes against his hands with it first. Grabs a hold of his right wrist as she wipes past the bruised knuckles, the dirty fingertips, the broken nail on his left thumb. She's gentler with him than she would be with herself. Her movements on his forearms are slow, wiping at the grime and blood deliberately while skirting around the worst of the bruises. She dips the washcloth back into the water once, twice.

She leans closer to him now that she's wiping at the blood that's collected on his upper arms and shoulders. There are small cuts underneath some of it that she needs to be careful with. She doesn't want to reopen all his injuries. The ones on his chest are already bad enough. The smell of gunpowder lingers in her nose the closer she leans toward him. She's strangely glad for it. Guns even out his fight. Make him come back alive. She feels a small smile tug at her lips when she puts the washcloth back in the bowl.

"I have to change the water," she tells him. It's more red than clear now and she knows that's no good for him. She looks down at the washcloth seconds later. "Also need to grab a new one of these."

"Sure."

She leaves the door to the bathroom open behind her. It's just so she can keep an eye on him, really. She feels his eyes on her when she changes the washcloth and pours the water from the bowl. She stupidly takes the time to rinse it before filling it anew. Stupid, because she catches her reflexion in the mirror and the woman staring back is not anyone she knows. It shakes her for a moment. She shakes her head. There's enough time to explore that after he's gotten the care he needs. _Pull your shit together, girlfriend._

"How far out were you from here, anyway?" she asks him as she walks back to the bed. "I didn't hear any major disturbances of the peace, so you must've been a little while out.."

"Several blocks." His eyes rest on her face a little more steadily now. Maybe the painkillers are starting to kick in a bit. She hopes so. He's going to need them. "Probably woke you. Sorry."

"I was still awake," she tells him when she begins to wipe at the coat of blood on his chest. Her scarf is already tinging red with trickles of blood. One of the wounds is still open. "I have this case I'm doing for the Bulletin and it's keeping me up at odd hours. It's something about the housing project that Sicarna is doing next year. Nothing too exciting, but they're getting payments from Theo Rossi and I need to make sure that's all it is." She smiles at him and simply keeps talking. His muscles are tense under her fingers now that she's softly wiping at the worst of his wounds. Anything to distract him. "Rossi's very willing to talk with blonde leggy reporters, did you know?" Her voice is rather wry now that she recalls the Italian's compliments. "It won't save him from a scathing article, though."

"Rossi's scum."

"Mhmm, he is." She rinses the washcloth in the water before applying it back to his skin. "He's nicer than most of the other bigshot criminals this place has got, though. The other housing project with that orphanage he did three years ago is a huge hit in the community." She shrugs. "He pays half of that with money earned from drugtrade, as far as I can tell, but it's giving back to people where it counts. The rental company he enlisted is actually listening to the tenants, too. He's not as crooked as Fisk was." The criminal's name leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She spits it out vehemently. "Hold off on killing Rossi until way after I publish this story, will you? I have no desire to have my boss ask me again why all my criminal sources don't live long and seem to run into the Punisher sooner than later."

"You know about that, huh?" He sounds vaguely surprised, but clearer of mind than he was earlier. "Figure I'm doing the world a favour by taking them out. You document them well."

She fixes him with a hard stare this time. Wipes at his skin a little too fiercely. "You're also ten seconds away from getting the cops to ask me what my connection to the Punisher is. Don't think they'd be too happy to find I patched you up after whatever fight you landed yourself into tonight. Aiding and abetting a criminal is a federal crime, miss Page," she mimics in true law enforcement style, "and it could land you jailtime with all the other ladies who think they're above the law. Oh, wait, we could get you extradited to Vermont to stand trial too."

"Vermont?"

"Lethal accident. My brother." She doesn't volunteer much more. Doesn't really have to. "You're landing my ass in hot water, _Punisher_." She glares up at him as she dumps the washcloth back into the bowl. Snaps at the title the world gave him. "Don't mess it up for me."

"I won't." His voice is quieter than hers. "Sorry."

His apology feels more genuine than anything she's heard from Matt, or Foggy, or anybody else in the past year. _Great._ She blinks slowly. Shakes her head. "It's okay. Sorry. I took it out on you and that's not right," she offers. "Gotta keep my demons on a leash."

"Not around me," she hears when she turns to the first-aid kit. She chooses to ignore that. Nothing good can come from letting go of her control around him. She knows that much. He doesn't offer her anything else. Good.

She takes a deep, sharp breath upon finding the disinfectant and needle with thread. There's a voice in the back of her head wailing about how there's no way she can do this. She tells it to shut up with all the vehemence she can muster. Directs the sound of her fury at it until there's nothing left of it. Freaking out won't help him. Staying steady will. She doesn't have anything for the disinfectant except her fingers, so she dabs it onto the area around and on his wounds directly without a go-between. Her hands grow steadier as she works. He doesn't make a sound, though she knows this particular one is the pinch-and-twist that leaves a gutpunch with open wounds.

She finds herself humming softly under her breath as she clears the bowl of water away and washes up before applying the disinfectant sparingly to her wrists and hands. She shakes her hands in the air until they're dry. The song she's humming is not one she knows, but it calms her nerves for what she is about to do. So she keeps going as she walks back to him. Keeps going even when her fingers push and coax the thread through the sterilised needle.

The only time she falters is when she contemplates the logistics of sewing up his chest. He notices. Leans back on his arms and shifts further back onto the bed. It opens his chest to her more. She pauses at his knees. "Can I sit on your legs?" she asks him matter-of-factly. "I can keep steady better that way than I can on the chair. Unless you banged your legs up too much for that.."

"It's fine. Sit."

She sees his Adam's apple bob up and down in his throat right before she puts her knee on the bed. She puts her other knee on the other side of him before she loses the last control over her nerves. Mutters a small curse under her breath as her nightgown hitches up slightly. She's suddenly glad it already has slits at the sides so she can stay modest.

She smirks at herself. Modesty around Frank. _Way to go, Karen._ It's funnily enough this thought that steadies her more than all the others. He has been closer in proximity to her than this. Threw himself bodily on top of her, in fact. She smiles at that fully now.

"That smile is disconcerting," he tells her seconds later.

She laughs when her hand lands on his chest near the worst of his injuries. "Why? Because it promises no good things?" She keeps her tone deliberately light. "Was just thinking about the last time you were here, really. You can still see the bulletholes in the walls. Fucked up my furniture."

"It looks good," he tells her while gazing up at her.

"Liar. You can't even see it." She pinches the skin around the wound closed a little more. Pricks the needle into his skin and threads the rest through. To his credit, he only grimaces. She decides to keep talking. "After all of that, I just threw some of it out. I got rid of the ugly old carpet, too. I never really liked that colour anyway. Blue's more my thing."

His gaze travels to his midriff. "And pink," he mentions offhand. She smiles at him while threading the needle through his skin carefully. Her hands are steady. He notices that, too. "You a sewing queen or something?"

"I practiced. I already knew how to sew up clothes," she tells him conversationally, "and I figured doing the same to skin isn't that much harder but I wanted to make sure so I watched a whole bunch of first-aid videos and the like." She bends over him to study the stitches she's creating. Pauses. "I got the time to practice it on myself when that asshole of a Clusky landed me in some backalley with a guy and a knife. Luckily for me, I am prepared for fights these days." She smiles rather viciously at the memory. "Looks like I'm doing an all right job of stitching you up so far. It helps that you're not the yelling and screaming kind, though."

He snorts at that. "Your neighbours would probably be disturbed if I did." He watches her puncture his skin over and over again. She would almost think him a masochist. "They'd probably think you brought home a very loud boyfriend."

"God, you're making me sound all dominatrix," she giggles softly. Flushes a little bit at the conversation they're having. _Really, Karen?_ Before she can stop herself, she bites her lip and adds: "I'll have you know that those screams would sound quite different."

"I bet." He sounds almost husky as he gazes at her. He scrapes his throat. Changes the subject back to where it was. Safer ground. "You're doing better with those stitches than I normally do. It might actually close up and not scar so bad." His voice is thick with approval now. "It doesn't hurt, if you're worried 'bout that. It's just annoying. Like a mosquito."

"Only you would compare a cut _this_ deep to a mosquito." She mutters a curse as her fingers grow slick with blood. Pauses to wipe them off on her nightgown. "We're halfway through the first one, how about that? Yay for us."

"Yay for you," he tells her with a fleeting smile. He's growing more comfortable underneath her. She can feel his legs relax and his muscles unclench the longer she works. There is a familiarity to the touch of his proximity that she dares not name for herself. "What have you been doing these past few months? Aside from interviewing criminals," he adds lightly. "You see much of the lawyers?"

"Nah. I talk to Foggy sometimes. We meet up at Josie's like once a month and he fills me in on lawyer life and all that, which is good." She smiles at the thought of Foggy. He's the only constant from another one of her old lives. "I don't speak with Matt anymore. Nobody's really seen him much, to be honest." She tries and fails to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "He's not who I thought he was."

He gazes up at her. She looks away and turns her attention back to the stitches. Calms her hand long enough to not ruin his skin with her frustration. She almost freezes when she feels his hand brush her knee and thumb across her skin in a soothing motion. She blinks away the tears that threaten to spill out from behind her eyes. He can still be kind. Somehow, that surprises her more than anything else about this night.

"What have you been doing?" she asks him as she finishes up the first cut. Re-threads the needle and begins immediately on cut number two. Her hands become more practiced at the work as she goes. "Aside from terrorising Hell's Kitchen's criminals and chatting with Trish Walker about a military program, that is." She laughs at the visible surprise on his face. Finally, something he doesn't know. "She's a friend of mine these days. From one blonde leggy reporter to the other, right?"

"Right.." He blinks his surprise away. "I should've guessed. She's just as tenacious as you. Packs a _really_ vicious punch, too."

"Krav maga," she replies knowingly. Glances up at his face briefly before refocusing on the neat little stitches she's sewing into his chest."You're skirting around the subject."

"I save dogs on a weekly basis," he tells her. There's a weird note in his voice that could almost be pride. She laughs softly at it. Chooses to believe him just for the way his voice sounds when he talks. "I drink lots of coffee. Shit, ma'am, I get into fights just for the hell of it."

"Sounds like you," she says with a smile. She can't wipe it off her face when she listens to him. His hand still rests warmly on her knee. "I feed the cats around here. They show up on the fire escape every so often." She hums softly to herself. "One of the guys in the building across the street always threatens to drown them if they steal his pigeons, can you believe that? Says he doesn't care about natural instincts." She chuckles a little bit. "I sprayed him with mace the last time he was chasing a cat. Told him that was my natural instinct to do to assholes like him. So I guess I get into fights just because, too."

Her fingers keep him in a vice-like grip as he begins to laugh in earnest. It's a warm, throaty rasp of a laugh that sounds like it's fallen into disuse over a longer period of time. He's making it harder for her to put the stitches in neatly this way, but she's not about to stop him from laughing. She pauses the needle to look at him. His face is more carefree in this moment than she ever remembers it being. It knocks her breath from her lungs to watch the smile curve around his lips and see his eyes crinkle fully with his amusement. He scrunches his nose briefly as he lets out a chuckle. This is so familiar to her and yet so foreign that she can barely breathe out of fear of disturbing it.

When his gaze fixes on her again, it's warmer than she remembers it. There has always been a carefulness inside of him around her, almost as if he was attempting to dissuade her from getting closer. Now that she looks at him, she doesn't feel the dissuading energy from him anymore. Fleetingly, she sees who he used to be before she knew him. Then his dark eyes roam over on her face as if he wishes to drink it in and she sees something else entirely. Her cheeks burn anew. She's the first to break eye contact.

 _It doesn't help that you're practically straddling him_ , she thinks wryly to herself as she renews her efforts to stitch him up. Lesser people would succumb to how it feels to be that close to someone who just understands you before you even explain yourself. Not her. Not him. They exist in this moment as if they are suspended in time. They can't let themselves be anything other than what they are. Warrior and healer, fighters both in different fashions, intelligence tangling with warfare until they're no longer separate.

She knows now that this won't be the last time he comes to her after a fight. Can feel it in the way his body bends to hers, can sense it in the way he attempts to accommodate her, can almost taste it in the air between them when he shifts slightly underneath her and her hips almost roll into him. She keeps her body deliberately controlled. Centres herself with a firm intake of breath. She moves on to the third cut, which is only minor in comparison, before starting work on the fourth. There are more cuts marring his body than this, but these are the only ones that need an extra crutch from her to heal.

"Almost done," she tells him. She's proud of herself when her voice doesn't tremble or shake. "I want to take a look at the burn on your shoulder, though. I don't have much for that, so I'll go out to buy something for it tomorrow." The words ' _if you stay_ ' hang in the balance of what she doesn't say. She frowns for a second. Registers the trickle of icy water running steadily over her left thigh. "Also, are the peas leaking?"

"They might be," he admits with a small grin. The scarf and their skin are soaked with the water that's now leaking from the pack. Yup, the peas didn't survive the heat. "You keep your room awfully hot, ma'am."

She ties the last of the stitches together expertly. "Good thing I wasn't in the mood to eat those peas any time soon," she remarks. Is careful to keep her voice light. She tugs at the knot she tied on the scarf. "I'll take it off for the night, re-freeze them, and you can put them back on in the morning for a while. We need to keep that swelling down." She tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. "I don't know if you've got internal bleeding there or not, but it looks pretty bad. No wonder you passed out in the hall."

When she slowly rises to her feet and wipes her bloody hands on her nightgown again, he scoffs lightly. "Lack of sleep and getting whipped with fire were worse contributors, ma'am," he tells her when she wraps the thread up and puts it back in the kit. His hands are slowly pulling the pack of peas off of his body. He lets the scarf run through his fingers as he works. His next words are nothing more than a murmur. "I appreciate you putting me up for the night."

Her nose crinkles when she yawns. It's been at least an hour since he landed himself on her doorstep. She takes the pack of peas and scarf from him. Tosses the scarf to the floor before shuffling over to the kitchen to stick the pack in the freezer once again. She's tired now that most of the work she can do for him is done. She leans over the kitchen counter for a moment to gather her bearings. Rubs her eyes tiredly.

She turns back to face him a second later. "Whipped by fire?" she asks him, now that she's registered what he was telling her earlier. "I wasn't aware that Hell's Kitchen is home to wannabe Zorro figures."

"Was home to," he corrects her unthinkingly. Oh. Of course. "He only got in the one move, but it is inconvenient."

She walks back over to the bed. He has tilted his shoulder toward her in the meantime, showing her the angry red of the burn, and risen to a seated position again. She tuts at the wound when she leans over him. "That's going to take a while to heal," she tells him matter-of-factly. "Your jacket probably caught the worst of it, but some of the tissue looks damaged." Her hands, still cool from the pack, reach out to him gingerly. "I'll check the internet tomorrow, see what I need to bring home from the store for it. Do you think you'll be okay sleeping with that tonight?"

He nods slowly. Hisses when her fingers softly touch the edges of the burn. She's careful to not touch the worst of it directly. She knows a too-icy touch isn't good for the burn, but her hands are already warming to the room. She hums in annoyance for a moment. This is not the best position. Withdraws her hands and crawls onto the bed behind him seconds later. Reapplies her hands to the outskirts of the burn.

"You might not want to sleep directly on top of that," she tells him softly now that his muscles are tensing up under her fingers. "Not too far onto the stitched-up parts, either, though, because I don't know how well they'll hold and I used up the last of my actual bandages last week." She snorts softly, more to herself than anything else. "Basically, don't move and you'll be fine."

Her voice drops off to a murmur talking about inconsequential things some more. She brushes her fingers over the wound as softly as she dares before settling her hands more firmly on his neck and back. She can see enough of his face to know he's getting drowsier by the minute. She presses down on his skin carefully, letting him know she's there with him. His hands grip her bedsheets loosely. It's almost as if he fears letting go of the reality of sitting on her bed in the early hours of the morning.

A part of her fears the same.

She doesn't know how long they stay in that space. She is shaken from her own drowsy stupour when he shifts on the bed. Her hands fall away from him. She tells him softly that the sheets are already ruined, no need to take off those combat boots, just lie down already and let the world be the world. By some saving grace, by some miracle, he simply listens. Listens in the way she wanted him to listen to her months ago.

Her anger burns hot in her throat. Grief and loss wage war with one another in her trembling hands. Through it all flows a thing she doesn't recognise right away. She stares at him when he shifts again and slowly lowers himself onto her mattress. His hair is shorter than when she saw him last. His face is less banged up, though she's quite sure that his right eye will turn black and blue before it heals up again. He looks more drawn in tiredness, more drowned in a sorrow she can't touch.

She can touch him, however, and that's what she does. Does it without even thinking about it. She's so angry with him that she can't breathe for it and the air gasps and snags in her throat. Yet, she is gentle with him when one hand comes to rest on his thigh and another on his arm. She can't make sense of herself. Tries to quench the relief she feels over him being real and alive and _here_.

None of this can last.

It's all she's got.

She closes her eyes against the realisation. Shifts her body until she is on the mattress beside him, shifts her hand from his thigh to loosely drape over him, shifts her entire being to fit into the open spaces he left for her. Her bare feet tangle somewhere between his boots. Her knees press into him. Her hand falls away from his shoulder and comes to rest somewhere on his back.

He lets her be. It's the grace he shows her in his silent acknowledgment of her when his legs press down on hers gently. It's in the comfort of his back pressing into her gently for a moment before he huffs out a breath and settles deeper into the mattress. Her eyes flutter closed now that her rage and relief have left her adrift in his wake. He's made a warzone of her in his absence. She's all tight coils and shifty gazes, smart comments and clipped words set out to ruin, the freezing cold of snow under her feet and unintelligible pleas haunting her dreams.

His presence feels more real than anything else she knows to be true. She shifts the weight of her arm closer to his chest, tucking it under his own arm, reaching for some part of him to hold onto. To know he's there and staying with her.

The last thing she senses before the dark of sleep overtakes her is the soft and hesitant curl of his fingers around her own.


End file.
